at the herd's house o' Everphaup, an' had raised the deil amang them."

Every countenance in the kitchen changed; the women gazed at John, and then at me, and their lips grew white. These kind of feelings are infectious, people may say what they will; fear begets fear as naturally as light springs from reflection. I reasoned stoutly at first against the veracity of the report, observing that it was utter absurdity, and a shame and disgrace for the country to cherish such a ridiculous lie.

"Lie!" said John, "It's nae lie; they had him up amang them like a great rough dog at the very time that the tempest began, and were glad to draw cuts, and gie him ane o' their number to get quit o' him again.” Lord, how every hair of my head, and inch of my frame crept at hear ing this sentence; for I had a dearly loved brother who was of the number, several full cousins and intimate acquaintances; indeed, I look ed upon the whole fraternity as my brethren, and considered myself involved in all their transactions. I could say no more in defence of the society's proceedings; for, to tell the truth, though I am ashamed to acknowledge it, I suspected that the allegation might be too true.

"Has the deil actually ta'en awa ane o' them bodily?" said Jean. "He has that," returned John, "an' it's thought the skaith wadna hae been grit, had he ta’en twa or three mae o’ them. Base villains! that the hale country should hae to suffer for their pranks! But, however, the law's to tak its course on them, an' they'll find, ere a' the play be played, that he has need of a lang spoon that sups wi' the deil."

The next day John brought us word, that it was only the servant maid that the ill thief had ta'en away; and the next again, that it was actually Bryden of Glenkerry; but, finally, he was obliged to inform us, "That a' was exactly true, as it was first tauld, but only that Jamie Bryden, after being a-wanting for some days, had casten up again.'

There has been nothing since that time that has caused such a ferment in the country-nought else could be talked of; and grievous was the blame attached to those who had the temerity to raise up the devil to waste the

land. If the effects produced by the Chaldee Manuscript had not been fresh in the minds of the present generation, they could have no right conception of the rancour that prevailed against these few individuals; but the two scenes greatly resembled each other, for in that case, as well as the latter one, legal proceedings, it is said, were meditated, and attempted; but lucky it was for the shepherds that they agreed to no reference, for such were the feelings of the country, and the opprobrium in which the act was held, that it is likely it would have fared very ill with them; at all events, it would have required an arbiter of some decision and uprightness to have dared to oppose them. Two men were sent to come to the house as by chance, and endeavour to learn from the shepherd, and particularly from the servant-maid, what grounds there were for inflicting legal punishments; but before that happened I had the good luck to hear her examined myself, and that in a way by which all suspicions were put to rest, and simplicity and truth left to war with superstition alone. I deemed it very curious at the time, and shall give it verbatim, as nearly as I can recollect.

Being all impatience to learn particulars, as soon as the waters abated, so as to become fordable, I hasted over to Ettrick, and the day being fine, I found numbers of people astir on the same errand with myself,-the valley was moving with people, gathered in from the glens around, to hear and relate the dangers and difficulties that were just overpast. Among others, the identical girl who served with the shepherd in whose house the scene of the meeting took place, had come down to Ettrick school-house to see her parents. Her name was Mary Beattie, a beautiful sprightly lass, about twenty years of age; and if the devil had taken her in preference to any one of the shepherds, his good taste could scarcely have been disputed. The first person I met was my friend, the late Mr James Anderson, who was as anxious to hear what had passed at the meeting as I was, so we two contrived a scheme whereby we thought we would hear every thing from the girl's own mouth.

We sent word to the school-house for Mary, to call at my father's house on her return up the water, as there

was a parcel to go to Phawhope. She came accordingly, and when we saw her approaching, we went into a little sleeping apartment, where we could hear every thing that passed, leaving directions with my mother how to manage the affair. My mother herself was in perfect horrors about the business, and believed it all; as for my father, he did not say much either the one way or the other, but bit his lip, and remarked, that "fo'k would find it was an ill thing to hae to do wi' the enemy."

My mother would have managed extremely well, had her own early prejudices in favour of the doctrine of all kinds of apparitions not got the better of her. She was very kind to the girl, and talked with her about the storm, and the events that had occurred, till she brought the subject of the meeting forward herself, on which the following dialogue commenced :

"But dear Mary, my woman, what were the chiels a' met about that night?"

"O, they were just gaun through their papers an' arguing.'

Arguing! what were they arguing

about?'

"I have often thought about it sin' syne, but really I canna tell precisely what they were arguing about."

"Were you wi' them a' the time?" "Yes, a' the time, but the wee while I was milkin' the cow."

"An' did they never bid ye gang out ?"

"Oo no; they never heedit whether I gaed out or in."

"It's queer that ye canna mind ought ava;—can ye no tell me ae word that ye heard them say?"

"I heard them sayin' something about the fitness o' things."

"I fear aye he's something regardless, Jamie."

"I hope nane that belangs to me will ever join him in sic wickedness! But tell me, Mary, my woman, did ye no see nor hear naething uncanny about the house yoursel' that night ?"

"There was something like a plover cried twice i' the peat-neuk, in at the side o' Will's bed.

"A plover! His presence be about us! There was never a plover at this time o' the year. And in the house too! Ah, Mary, I'm feared and concerned about that night's wark! What thought ye it was that cried?"

"I didna ken what it was, it cried just like a plover."

"Did the callans look as they war fear'd when they heard it?” "They lookit gay an' queer." "What did they say?" "Ane cried, 'What is that?' an' another said, What can it mean.' Hout,' quo Jamie Fletcher, just some bit stray bird that has lost itsel.' I dinna ken,' quo your Will, I dinna like it unco weel.' "Think ye, did nane o' the rest see any thing?"

seen.

it's

I believe there was something

My mother was now deeply affected, and after two or three smothered exclamations, she fell a whispering; the other followed her example, and shortly after they rose and went out, leaving my friend and me very little wiser than we were, for we had heard both these incidents before with little variation. I accompanied Mary to Phawhope, and met with my brother, who soon convinced me of the falsehood and absurdity of the whole report; but I was grieved to find him so much cast down and distressed about it. None of them durst well shew their faces at either kirk or market for a whole year, and more. The weather continuing fime, we two went together and perambulated Eskdale moor, visiting the principal scenes of carnage among the flocks, where we saw multitudes of

"Who was it reared these whelming waves ? Who scalp'd the brows of old Cairn Gorm, And scoop'd these ever-yawning caves? 'Twas I, the Spirit of the Storm!"

He waved his sceptre north away,

The arctic ring was rift asunder; And through the heaven the startling bray Burst louder than the loudest thunder.

The feathery clouds, condensed and furled, In columns swept the quaking glen; Destruction down the dale was hurled,

O'er bleating flocks and wondering men.

The Grampians groan'd beneath the storm;
New mountains o'er the correi lean'd;
Ben Nevis shook his shaggy form,
And wonder'd what his Sovereign mean'd.

Even far on Yarrow's fairy dale,

The shepherd paused in dumb dismay; And cries of spirits in the gale

Lured many a pitying hind away.

The Lowthers felt the tyrant's wrath; Proud Hartfell quaked beneath his brand; And Cheviot heard the cries of death, Guarding his loved Northumberland.

But O, as fell that fateful night,

What horrors Avin wilds deform,
And choak the ghastly lingering light!
There whirled the vortex of the storm.
Ere morn the wind grew deadly still,
And dawning in the air updrew
From many a shelve and shining hill,
Her folding robe of fairy blue.

Then what a smooth and wonderous scene
Hung o'er Loch Avin's lovely breast!
Not top of tallest pine was seen,

On which the dazzled eye could rest; But mitred cliff, and crested fell,

In lucid curls her brows adorn; Aloft the radiant crescents swell,

All pure as robes by angels worn. Sound sleeps our seer, far from the day, Beneath yon sleek and writhed cone; His spirit steals, unmiss'd, away,

And dreams across the desart lone.

Sound sleeps our seer!-the tempests rave,
And cold sheets o'er his bosom fling;
The moldwarp digs his mossy grave;
His requiem Avin eagles sing.

Eltrive, April 14th, 1819.

JAMES HOGG.

(Continued from No

THE dramatists of the age of Elizabeth, with their immediate successors, form a body of writers requiring distinct and very peculiar mention in the history of English Poetry. In their works lies the English drama-a distinct, characteristic, national dramaaltogether unlike that of any other people entire in itself, and constituting, both by its extent and the high genius involved in it, a very important part of our whole Literature. To the greater part of the readers and lovers of English poetry, indeed, its whole drama is comprised under the single name of Shakspeare. Of the many excellent works of other dramatists of the same period, nothing, strictly speaking, seems to have become popularfor nothing has established itself in the daily thoughts and recollections of the people. Many meritorious attempts have lately been made by the lovers of our elder literature to bring this part of poetry in some way or other to the knowledge, admiration, and delight of the common readers of these later times. But, in truth, there is a gulf of separation, which is hard to pass. The language itself, with the whole cast of thought and feeling the whole character of mind -estranges these works from the passionate sympathies of the general reader. For the poetical feelings of men in general, or their pleasure in poetry, are so intensely blended with passion in their minds, that they cannot bear another language than that which, spoken by themselves, glows in their hearts with all the vivid associations of life. He must be a student of poetry-in some measure a learned reader who has acquired the power of going out of this living language, and of carrying his affections into another speech, among men whose garb and aspect is not of his generation. Shakspeare alone is of no age. He speaks a language which thrills in our blood, in spite of the separation of two hundred years. His thoughts, passions, feelings, strains of fancy, all are of this day, as they were of his ownand his genius may be contemporary with the mind of every generation for a thousand years to come. But to the VOL. V.

XXIV. page 708.)

student of English literature, the genius of Shakspeare, though unrivalled, is not alone. He is one of a great body-the chief of a mighty band. And especially to the thoughtful reader who considers our poetry in connexion with the history of the country, he is only one among the authors of a vast multitude of writings, which not only reflect great splendour on a particular era of our literature, but which characterize, in an extraordinary manner, the genius of one age of the people,and indeed the genius and spirit of the whole nation, as far as it is identical, through a succession of ages. The drama of this period-(the English drama we shall venture to call it, for what comes down from the civil wars to our own time is an imitative, not a national drama)—is distinguished in its purpose and character from that of every other people who have had a theatre. That of every other people, as it appears to us, has a purpose and a character fashioned by peculiar circumstances of the peoplebelonging, it may be said, to the external circumstances of their condition.

But this is derived not from circumstances accidental and inessential, but from the very mind, heart, soul, and genius of the people. It is a drama not seeking to adapt itself to particular courses of thought or senti ment-to reflect manners-or to attach itself, as to a second nature, to deep-rooted associations. But it has a simple and a single purpose, which should be the essential purpose of all great poetry-namely, to represent man as he appears to imaginative and impassioned thought. It will be difficult, we think, to assign to the Eng-. lish drama of this period any other general design; and as difficult, we also think, to point out any play of much character among the multitude of that prolific and teeming time, of which the purpose may not be comprehended under this description. It is distinguished from all others by thisthat it is Genius conceiving of Human Life. The Greek Tragedy was a splendid representation of mythological or historic national fable, hallowed by religious awe, and dignified by ances 2 E

tral glory. The French Tragedy is a beautiful work of art, taking, where ever it can find it most suitable, the matter of its ingenious and delicate skill, but afraid, as it were, to look into the depths of the hu man heart, lest agencies should rise up, not to be controlled within its limits, and the stormier spectacle of real life break down the more manage able machinery of regulated and fictitious passion. The wild Drama of Spain is a love story or a romance acted on the stage, with all the engage ing wonders and adventures which fancy, in the dream of solitude, can bring together from the traditions or the records of a chivalrous land. The Indian Drama-which, remote as it is from our own literature, may yet be mentioned, and the rather on that account, as it helps to shew the origin of tragic composition is the impersonation, in human form, of an allegorical mythology, and is therefore akin to the Grecian Tragedy, and the Mysteries of modern Europe. Of the German Drama, it would be difficult to speak, for, late as it has sprung up, it is hard to know whether it be native or not. It derives a peculiar character, certainly, from the temper of their genius, and seems to blend often, in a very striking way, the tumultous energies of passion, as they are seen in our best English plays, with a wild kind of metaphysics, that, in some states and moods of mind, are felt to increase that power of passion which one might think could not tolerate so strange an union. Its purposes are, no doubt, those of our English Tragedy, from which, it is rather for them than us to say, whether or not it may be imitated. The English Drama, then, unlike that of all others, except such as have been derived from it, if it could survive a wreck of nations, would be a record of

inen.

This character, which we assign to the whole of the elder dramatists, has, by Mr Campbell, been described of Shakspeare alone, in a few comprehensive words," He was the Poet of the world." The extraordinary power of his genius has made that in him splendidly conspicuous, and, to appearance, singly characteristic, which is true, in measure, of all who wrote for the same stage. We may mention some of the remarkable features of this drama, in reference to the great principle, which

explains, pervades, and determines all its works. In the first place, the singular variety of its subjects: from all histories of all nations—from all conditions and persons of society-from all manner of human transactions, these subjects are taken, while the pictures are filled up from all varieties of our human life without,-from all varieties of our human heart within,— and then, beyond life, from all varieties of imaginary existence with which man has peopled his own world, and with the wild imaginary thoughts and moods which he has conceived of those unreal Beings. So that this drama, more than any other, is the mirror f man's existence. It brings up again, in changeful procession be fore the eyes of fancy, all that has lived on the earth-all that has passed away from it. It restores, in unsubstantial existence, the departed generations of mankind, enveloped once more in the breathing and living atmosphere of passion. In the second place, its rejection of the unities-for what are they, or where do they exist in the dream of human life? In the third place, the careless, unconcerted structure of its plots, in which incidents and events seem all hurrying on as we see them in real life, not in a staid, solemn, and arrayed procession, but often contrary to all anticipations of foresight, and with something of a wild, capricious, fantastic, and perplexing fury, such as we often see driving headlong the destinies of living men. In the fourth place, the plenitude of vigorous and real existence, even to extreme indivi duality of character in the agents, and the circumstantial reality with which their persons and action are invested. And, in the fifth place, the intermixture in tragedy of that which is not tragic-of that which is even beneath the just comic character of homeliest life, and beneath even this again, of grossness and buffoonery, all acted together on the stage, as nature acts them in our living world.

There is, then, but one era of the English drama, that which concentres round Shakspeare-his immediate predecessors-his cotemporaries, and his immediate successors. The originality of that age, in composition, is shewn chiefly in the drama-and the body of poetry which should be comprised in volumes comprehending all the plays